


Tie

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard offers himself to the Elf King in exchange for aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tie

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “After the BotFA, Bard asks Thranduil for more aid and protection for his people, offering himself in marriage as payment since he has nothing else to give. Thranduil somewhat bemusedly accepts, and then awkward courtships/cultural miscommunications/sneaking up feelings ensue. +10 if Bard views this as martyrdom and offers his body up to Thranduil on their wedding night while silently freaking out because he's never been with a man before, and Thranduil is all "wait what no what are you doing," and is flustered while also silently freaking out because he finds this human attractive and that's not how this was supposed to go” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24734837#t24734837). (I had to adapted it a little to mah style...)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It hasn’t been long since the battle when Bard returns to him, but it is the first time the Bard’s been in his halls. It’s been a long time since _any_ human has been in the fortress of the Greenwood. Thranduil receives word of Bard’s approach as soon as his border is breached, and he orders Bard to be assisted but not apprehended. He’s proven that he doesn’t require guards, though, of course, the towering castle can still require a bit of guidance for mere mortals. 

Thranduil arranges himself in his throne as he waits. He bids his guards to leave him, leaving matters of the kingdom for another day. He first lounges back against the smooth wood, then fidgets into more regal posture, something powerful but not imposing. There’s little else to do when his thoughts are so consumed, and he doesn’t want to leave his throne, because their talks should be here, in the epicenter of his command.

Eventually, he spots Bard in the distance. The human is much as Thranduil remembers: tall, rugged, but much too run down with dirt and misery. His clothes hang off him like rags, his hair a matted mess, even his beard run wild. The closer he gets, the easier it is for Thranduil to see each little tired crack and crevice, even the flecks of dirt beneath Bard’s work-worn fingernails. For all the stature of his new lordship, he looks very much a commoner, and his hands give him away the most. 

But he comes up the long walkway to Thranduil’s throne all the same, panting, just a little, as he ascends the stairs. There’s no fear in his gate, but he does almost hesitate when he’s atop the platform. For a moment, Thranduil thinks he’ll bow, but he only inclines his head forward.

A pity. There are some formalities Thranduil will always enjoy, and the submission of lovely things is one of them. For all of Bard’s muddy countenance, he is, below all his scruff, an attractive man. When Thranduil muses on the battle they barely survived, Bard’s courage is one of few shining lights. Thranduil asks firsts, “How is the land of Dale?”

Thranduil isn’t sure what he expected. Yet it wasn’t Bard looking awkwardly aside. Human pride, perhaps, crumbled in the face of reality, although Bard always seemed to Thranduil a refreshingly pragmatic man. “We... are struggling,” Bard admits. After a short breath, he turns his gaze to Thranduil, washing over in resolve. “I wish to ask you for aid.”

Thranduil settles back. His legs absently cross, his fingers knitting together over them, and he supposes he should’ve known. He’s always the one the humans come to, though it’s never been quite like this before, with such a personal delivery. Thranduil had no love, no notice at all, for the former leader of the town on the lake. Yet here Bard is before him, in person, and that, Thranduil must admit, is worth something. 

He still has to say, “Our own resources were depleted after the battle.” It almost pains him to admit, as their relationship has always been a satisfactory one. “The elves can’t offer handouts to men forever.” 

“I wouldn’t ask it freely,” Bard replies, which forces Thranduil to quirk an eyebrow. 

He’s almost gentle when he tells the pitiful human, “How could you ever hope to pay us back? It will be years before your people are established enough to have a surplus in resources, and whatever wealth you acquired from Erebor will surely be needed in that process.” Bard shifts his weight to another foot, looking mildly uncomfortable; he’s proven himself to be an intelligent man, and he must know the truth of the words. Still, Thranduil feels inclined to ask, “Why do you not simply go to the dwarves that now rest on your doorstep?”

Bard makes a scoffing noise and looks away, shaking his head. It seems to bolster him when he looks back. “The dwarves left us long ago. It’s been the elves that have always helped Laketown. And...” here he pauses again, eyes connecting with Thranduil’s as he adds, “I know that you’re a fair king.”

Thranduil sighs. 

He would _like_ to help, of course, but he can’t have an inferior nation clinging to his coattails. Even without any details of what help Bard would like, the concept gives Thranduil pause. He’s left to ponder, until Bard shifts again, awkward but looking Thranduil firmly in the eye. He says quietly but full of strength, “I have myself to offer.”

Both of Thranduil’s eyebrows rise. “You?”

“Once, it wasn’t so unusual,” Bard starts, slowly but sure, “for treaties between peoples to be formed via the marriage of their leaders. I know my people don’t have much to give now, but we’re a resilient and loyal lot. We will come out of this. In the meantime, and for as long as you so choose, I will offer myself, all on your terms, as payment.” A pause, and he adds, a little softer, “...I have nothing else to give.”

Thranduil, though he of course recognizes the concept, is very much surprised. He’s sure a bit of it must leak onto his face before he catches himself. Then he’s settling back again to wonder very different matters. 

Bard, in truth, has very little to offer as a husband. But humans are short-lived, and Thranduil knows that it would only be a temporary arrangement in the grand scheme of his rule: a short blip of bonding before inevitably returning to solitude. A few times, Thranduil has considered remarrying, but never with anyone specific in mind, and no one has ever been foolish enough to proposition him. Yet here he is, with a mortal man that Thranduil respects on the battlefield but knows little else of. He knows that Bard is a faithful steward of the town and that he’s never given the elves any reason to distrust him. Everything else is a mystery that Thranduil isn’t sure he cares to unravel. 

And yet... Bard _is_ a handsome specimen. Thranduil can’t deny finding Bard, despite all his many flaws, attractive. It isn’t an easy feeling for Thranduil to capture; it’s been a long time since he felt so inclined to touch another being. The more he looks at Bard, the more impressed he is that Bard’s offered this and still stands strong, albeit far too tense. 

The people of Laketown have always bowed to him. If only for a short flicker in Thranduil’s life, he supposes he could find pleasure in their offering. Mildly bemused as he remains, Thranduil decides, “Very well.” He nods his head once in acquiescence, drawling, “I accept.”

Bard visibly relaxes. His shoulders slump, and his breath releases. Thranduil asks, “When do I receive my payment?”

“I’d like to see the supplies back to my people—food and medicine and any cloth you can spare—and then I’ll return.”

Finding that acceptable, Thranduil promises, “I will have my guards gather whatever supplies you should need.” For the first time since his arrival, Bard nearly smiles. 

It’s a tight, strained thing, but it’s there, and Thranduil can see the relief glinting in his eyes. Thranduil already knows that he will provide whatever’s needed to alleviate his neighbour’s suffering, though he appreciates Bard’s look of gratitude. 

Bard turns to leave. Once, Thranduil might have bid him to stay, so they could discuss matters properly, sit to chat and see if they are, in fact, as compatible as Thranduil would like to believe. But he’s older now and understands that not every relationship can be purely for love. He already had that. Now he’s a king, negotiating politics, and he allows Bard to walk away.

Bard hesitates at the end of the dais, turning to look over his shoulder. “I have three children,” he says, and Thranduil can’t tell if that’s meant to change matters or not.

When Bard gives him nothing else to go on, Thranduil replies, “You have my promise that they will be well taken care of until we have decided how this marriage will play out.” It seems the only proper thing to say, though inwardly, Thranduil’s stomach twists at the thought of three little human children running through his home. Some days he misses having Legolas small enough to be held and cry out for his father over a stubbed knee or a small rabbit, but others only serve to remind him how ill-equipped he is to handle such delicate creatures. Perhaps Bard can be convinced to leave his little ones in Laketown until they are, at least, of age. 

Perhaps they can find common ground in the teaching of their children, although Thranduil has no illusion that his methods are sound. In all, it’s a complicated matter, far too messy for their tentative beginning. He makes no further promises, though he can see the gravity of it in Bard’s face, and he knows he can’t separate a man from his children. 

With a curt nod to acknowledge Thranduil’s words, Bard sweeps down the steps. Thranduil watches him go with mingled amusement and wonderment—what has he gotten himself into?

He only relaxes briefly when he’s alone, sinking heavily back into his chair to ponder his choices. Finally, he lifts a hand to call the nearest guard—orders must be given.

* * *

It’s a full ten days before Bard returns. Though the short time is nothing in the life of an elf, Thranduil’s spent much of it engrossed in his thoughts of this, equal parts reservations and anticipation. He learns of Bard’s coming the minute a boat sets out across the lake, and he has his people prepare for such: ribbons are tied and candles are laid. When the time comes, Thranduil goes to greet Bard himself, standing at the end of the long walkway that cross into what Mirkwood’s taken over. Bard approaches on foot, just on time. 

Legolas stands next to Thranduil between the gates, stoic and silent. They’ve discussed the matter little, and sometimes Thranduil can’t tell if it’s warmth or disapproval in his son’s eyes. Legolas is too old for Thranduil’s choice in partners to affect him much, yet Thranduil finds himself relieved when Legolas doesn’t outright criticize the union. He would have every right, given Thranduil’s own lectures on seeking worthy partners, but what he wishes for his son and what he will settle for himself are two very different matters. He’s also already had his time, already raised his heir, and he knows that this commitment, no matter how viable he might find it, can only ever be an ephemeral thing. 

As soon as Bard steps onto the bridge, it’s obvious that he’s come more prepared. He’s cleaned himself up, and Thranduil must admit that he cleans up well. His clothes are still far beneath the Elven standards, but they’re devoid of any rips and stains: a tight, clear-cut jacket and pants, like a royal guard’s uniform without any emblems. His hair has been neatly brushed, the ends still pulled away from his face and into a little tail at the back, and his beard has been trimmed to an even length. Even his hands are less grubby, though they are, of course, still calloused and thick from labour.

Thranduil is pleased that Legolas will see his intended this way, and, perhaps, also a little pleased that he might still have the ability to surprise his son. There isn’t much Thranduil can tell from the way Bard walks along the bridge, but he doesn’t pause, and at the end, he offers a small, if awkward, smile. He dips his head again to greet, “My king.”

“Bard of Laketown,” Thranduil smoothly replies, tilting his head the same way. Then he gestures his hand towards Legolas, announcing, “This is Legolas, my son.”

A moment of surprise passes over Bard’s face, but Legolas bows his head politely and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Whether or not he means it isn’t something Thranduil would like to get into, but he can’t imagine Bard could do much to offend Legolas besides, of course, bonding with his father in his mother’s wake.

Thranduil never truly intended to be alone forever. He thinks Legolas must understand, and Legolas shows Bard only respect in their short meeting. He doesn’t follow, though, when Thranduil tucks a hand behind Bard’s back and guides him gently into the halls. Bard allows himself to be swept along, and they fall into stride. Thranduil’s guards don’t follow: everyone has been informed, and this human has been deemed trustworthy by the king’s own judgment. Now, their time is theirs and theirs alone. 

As Thranduil personally escorts Bard to the prepared rooms, he explains, “You have been assigned quarters until our wedding ceremony tonight.” No sooner has he said it than Bard starts, looking over at Thranduil with a slight wideness to his eyes. His steps falter before he falls back in line with Thranduil’s measured gate.

“Tonight? That’s so... soon.”

“Perhaps,” Thranduil admits. He doesn’t bother to go into the explanation of how short their time together will truly be, and how he’d like to start as soon as he can. “But then, I see no reason to delay. ...Unless, of course, you are rescinding your offer.”

Bard quickly says, “Of course not,” and shakes his head. Thranduil hadn’t thought so; Bard is, after all, a royalty of his own kind, the new master of the humans, and Thranduil knows as well as any that this decision wouldn’t have been made lightly. After another moment of quiet, save for the light glide of Thranduil’s footsteps and the heavier sound of Bard’s boots, Bard says, “Thank you for the supplies. They’ll save a lot of people.”

And will continue to do so, Thranduil thinks. As handsome as Bard is, this is about more than their union, and Thranduil, now, will feel responsible for the humans’ survival. By the same token, he has, in a way, extended his own kingdom: he’s garnered more subjects to rule. Someday, he intends to visit Dale again, if only for the nostalgia of old and, naturally, to survey the value of his new alliance. Its architecture was still interesting, even crumbled as it was amidst the battle. As Thranduil remembers the intricacies of the ruins, he notes, “You fought well during the battle. Through it and the negotiations, you proved your good heart.”

Out the corner of his eye, Thranduil can see Bard’s cheeks growing a dusty pink. Bard mutters, “Thank you,” and then, glancing over, “you weren’t bad yourself.”

Thranduil smiles, and they round the next corner. At the end of the corridor, Bard’s chambers are already open, the doors spread to reveal the lush interior. No expense was spared, and Thranduil finds himself pleased with the surprised and awe-struck look on Bard’s face.

When they reach the entrance to Bard’s chambers, they stop just outside the doors. Thranduil has no more words to say at this moment, so he simply leans forward, his hair spilling over his shoulders as he presses forward for a kiss. It’s only a simple token to bid his partner’s good night, but Bard suddenly looks away, his body going rigid. Thranduil’s lips connect, instead, with Bard’s cheek, and he’s only chaste, barely lingering. 

When he straightens back out, Bard is still looking aside. Absently, Thranduil wonders if Bard has ever been with a man before: perhaps that is a concern. Humans can be very silly about such things. If it isn’t only nerves, then Thranduil is very confused. He doesn’t understand how a man could offer himself in such a way, even for political convenience, without wanting Thranduil, even to some small degree. Thranduil has, after all, often been told of his own beauty: he’s a _king_ , and he looks it. But evidently, he’s misunderstood the arrangement.

Perplexed, and more than a little disappointed, Thranduil leaves without a kiss, while Bard disappears through the doors.

* * *

The wedding night proceeds as planned. 

Thranduil arrives early to view the large, circular room, draped in white laces and alit with many low-burning candles, while the starlight overhead filters in through the open branches. After surveying the place, Thranduil kneels on the raised platform in the center, his knees cushioned by an array of pillows. He’s warn only outer robes, long and thin and silver, the idea of which is that the bonded couple may shed their robes easily after to celebrate their joining. He’s no longer sure that will happen, but he wears the traditional garment all the same. Legolas comes to sit near the platform, holding his candle raw in his hands. There’s a question in his eyes, but Thranduil doesn’t want to answer. 

He waits, in silence, and before long, Bard arrives, looking awkward and lost but resolved to move forward. The elves around him only continue their work, some settling in to sit and face the platform, others still tying up loose ends. Musicians lie across from the door, strumming harps and holding a quiet, intangibly melody that has no set plan. Thranduil finds it soothing, though the situation, when he lingers on it too much, does cause his pulse to quicken. 

It’s been a long time. He could have many more in his life, if he chose. This was not how he thought his next would come to pass, but as he sees Bard sitting across from him, draped in the same silver robes, he knows this will be worth it. Bard came to him handsome, but now everything is scrubbed away, and he looks absolutely _stunning_. The taut robes cling to his trim form, highlighting the sensuous curves of muscles and the smoothness of barely veiled skin. His hair has all been tied back with a white ribbon, dotted with the same thin, white branches that weave through Thranduil’s. Small jewels glisten through both his hair and Bard’s, clinging in a few places, to give them the appearance of fallen stars. Bard opens his mouth, perhaps to ask _what next_ , but he seems to have no words.

Thranduil says only, “It is not too late to cancel this. You may, of course, leave at any time, but fully dissolving our bond will be difficult once the ceremony is complete.”

Bard says, “Thank you,” but it doesn’t at all look like he’s considered it. His gaze is hot, steady and almost burning, and Thranduil can no longer tell if it’s mere determination. Together, the two of them wait for all of their guests to settle, and then Thranduil offers out his hands. 

Bard takes them without hesitation, placing one of his palms flat atop Thranduil’s, the other underneath. His skin is warm. Thranduil tells him gently, “Repeat my words.”

And then the vows begin. 

None of them have any specific meaning. Other places of elves often do, and Thranduil has heard of the strange bindings of men, but in his home, the general concepts of tying two beings together have always been enough. He speaks the words in the ancient language of his people, and before he can offer a translation into the common tongue, Bard repeats Thranduil’s sounds. He may not understand their meaning, but he tries valiantly, while his face remains on Thranduil’s with a certain sureness. He has a thick human accent as he speaks, but Thranduil doesn’t mind and is nonetheless impressed. Elvish is difficult for mortals, yet Bard pushes through. He repeats promises to care for one another, to make efforts to cherish and believe, to stand by one another and never to harm. It’s a simple arrangement that doesn’t take long, and soon, Thranduil is shifting their hands, bringing them to point upwards, their fingers first aligned, then slithering to intertwine. He can feel Bard’s pulse through his hands, and in this moment, cast in the glow of the stars with hushed music and Elven promises and the aroma of earth and fire, his husband looks _beautiful_.

As they lower their hands, Thranduil sighs, “Bard, Master of Dale, I am yours.”

Bard replies, “Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, I am yours.”

And then he moves across the little space and brushes their lips together before Thranduil can stop him. A kiss isn’t part of the Greenwood ceremonies. But it’s too quick, too light, for him to stop. Bard settles back down again, his pulse running wild through their palms. 

Recovering, Thranduil bows his head. Bard follows. Legolas, Thranduil’s prince and heir, places twin crowns atop their heads: thin, weaved branches, interlaced with pearls. When they straighten, Thranduil realizes how oddly _right_ the crown looks on Bard. 

He makes a note to fit Bard with his own crown at some point, if only to enjoy the view. 

Then he disconnects their hands: the ceremony complete.

* * *

Thranduil pays little attention to the chatter of his court, preferring, instead, to hear only the music. It plays throughout the castle and will continue on until daybreak, and it lingers along Thranduil’s steps as he walks back with Bard. Again, he escorts Bard alone. This time, when they reach the tall doors, he doesn’t try for a kiss. 

Bard does, however, lure him inside by tugging his sleeve, and Thranduil curiously follows. Bard shuts the doors behind them and reaches for his collar, pushing the first little lace loop off its round button. 

Thranduil, watching Bard’s careful fingers, asks, “What are you doing?” He’d assumed, naturally, that they would spend tonight in separate beds. 

But Bard slowly works his collar open, letting the fabric part across his creamy skin, showing off his collarbone and the tip of his broad chest to Thranduil’s hungry gaze. Looking down at the buttons he still works through, Bard says, “I offered myself to you, and I intend to follow through.” This isn’t what Thranduil thought he was accepting. Not exactly. But he doesn’t say so right away, because his own confusion and, perhaps, a small tinge of fear, holds him at bay—this isn’t how he wanted things. He won’t be the sort of king who forces it, and Bard glances at him once, then looks back and lingers, perhaps at Thranduil’s frown. Fingers stilling, Bard admits, “I... actually, I didn’t think an elf king would want me, at first. But then... you tried to kiss me.” He licks his lips, looking almost nervous. “I’m sorry I pulled away. I’m not... this is all new to me.”

Thranduil wants to search for the right words. He’s a patient man and used to having time, but as Bard returns to opening his robes across his stomach, Thranduil realizes he doesn’t have that luxury now. He extends a hand to place over Bard’s, stopped just before Bard’s crotch. The matted patch of dark hair dipping down his stomach is already visible, and only a few more buttons will see him completely naked. Bard stops, peering up at Thranduil with now uncertain eyes. It takes every last drop of Thranduil’s will power to force his gaze away, resisting the tantalizing view of Bard’s body. He explains, “I do find you very... attractive. But I’m not that kind of king.” It comes out almost as a snarl; he didn’t think Bard thought so little of him. “I would not take an unwilling partner.”

Bard says stiffly, “I’m not unwilling.” 

Thranduil sighs. Humans are stubborn, he knows, almost as much so as dwarves. It seems this one also has a martyr complex, and Thranduil, carefully eyeing the far wall and _not_ the bed, says, “Your contract is complete.” His people will have aid for as long as he lives, and they will live this marriage without each other’s company, if they must. Such is the nature of unions made for merely politics. 

It’s still a little painful to realize how easily he’s stepped into it. He turns back towards the door, ready to leave, but he’s only taken one step when Bard grabs his wrist. Thranduil, pausing, looks down at it, just long enough for Bard to snatch his fingers back. Nervous but determined, he licks his lips—an enticing thing that draws Thranduil’s eyes. Bard looks forcibly away and mutters, “Look. I’m sorry if I’m not doing this well, but I want to. It’s just all new. I’ve never been with a man before.”

“I assumed as much,” Thranduil says evenly, though it changes nothing. “But would you want me?”

Bard shivers. It runs through his body in a delicious tremor that almost halts Thranduil’s breath. Bard’s cheeks are staining dark again, and slowly, he nods. His eyes fall closed when he explains, “The first time I saw you arrive on that elk of yours, I knew I was captivated.” Another small shiver, and Bard nearly sighs, “You were _so_ beautiful, you still are. But I’d never seen an elf before, and your face, your piercing eyes, your long hair...” Slowly, his eyes open again, looking straight into Thranduil’s. “I’ve seen others, now. But none have matched you, and it was you I fought beside, you I reasoned with, you who came to help my people when no one else would. We never got to say a proper goodbye after the battle, and... I think I was hoping we wouldn’t have to.”

It’s a fine admission. One that, perhaps, should’ve been spoken _before_ their vows, but the words warm Thranduil nonetheless. He finds himself chuckling softly, “There are better ways to court a man than leaping straight to marriage.”

Bard shrugs his shoulders awkwardly and sighs, “I suppose I was also hoping I wouldn’t have to say any of this. It would’ve been easier to just jump in, head first, with the guise of my people’s interests, and throw all the responsibility on your shoulders.” Thranduil smiles thinly. In matters of his kingdom, he’s never minded the weight of his responsibility. The bedroom, however, is a place for such things to be shared. 

Convinced, more so even by the look on Bard’s face than the words, Thranduil takes a step closer. It puts him just at Bard’s body, his feet between Bard’s, clad only in white slippers. Thranduil lifts his hand to slide gently along Bard’s cheek, immensely pleased when Bard doesn’t pull away. He runs his fingers through Bard’s combed hair, his thumb tracing the stubble along Bard’s chin. He could, he imagines, enjoy waking up to this face.

He murmurs, leaning down to brush his voice along Bard’s ear, “I would rather us take that burden _together_.”

Bard tilts his head, and suddenly their mouths are together. Thranduil, caught of guard, opens his, only to have it filled with Bard’s tongue a split second later. Bard’s hands come to either side of his face, threading through his hair to grab him and hold him down, while Bard’s teeth tug at his bottom lip. Thranduil’s open for Bard’s tongue to trace along his. Bard kisses Thranduil so fiercely that there can be no doubt to his want, and once Thranduil grows used to that, he presses back. The hand at Bard’s cheek slips to lock around his shoulders, Thranduil’s other arm dropping to run along the back of Bard’s waist. He pulls Bard into him, and Bard grunts and kisses _harder_ , refusing to let go. 

They only do when Bard’s fingers have slipped into the front of Thranduil’s robes, and Thranduil pulls away to work on his own buttons. Bard helps, all of the grace and hesitance gone—instead, he practically rips them from their sockets. Thranduil is nimble but tries to match the speed, and when his chest is bared, he continues working down while Bard runs his hands beneath the fabric, sliding over Thranduil’s body. Evidently, Bard doesn’t have much trouble adapting his attentions to a man. By the time Thranduil reaches his crotch, Bard’s hands have darted back to his face, and they’re kissing again. 

They step over, Thranduil trying to guide them towards the bed and Bard following, both their robes near to the finish. Through the tangle of kisses, Thranduil tries to free the remainder of Bard’s buttons while Bard fiddles with his own. It’s a mess, but they manage, and a moment later Bard is shrugging his shoulders back, letting the fabric slithers off his body. Thranduil parts them to _stare_.

Under Thranduil’s hungry gaze, Bard shifts but doesn’t wilt, merely asks, “Am I acceptable?”

He’s muscle, all the way down, strong arms and strong legs and a taut, indented stomach, not too thick in any one place, more trim—the perfect mix of agility and power: the Elven preference. More than that, his sun-kissed complexion is an exotic treat, like the way he holds himself, different but alluring. His cock, long and wide, juts out of a thick patch of dark curls, the mushroom head strangely exposed. Thranduil breathes, “ _Perfect._ ”

Bard seems to sigh in relief, and then he does Thranduil the honours of finishing the last button, and Thranduil’s robes fall around him. He stands, tall and proud, while Bard’s hungry eyes rake over him, then announce, full of awe, “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

Thranduil can’t help his smirk. He was right to accept this joining. Carefully, he plucks the crown from Bard’s head, then his own. It would be a shame to damage them. He walks over to the nightstand to place them down, then abruptly finds himself knocked over onto the mattress. 

Even as he rolls onto his side to face his attacker, Bard is trying to rearrange them, scrambling up and kicking the blankets aside, leaving crisp white sheets for them to spread along. Thranduil is tempted to lounge back—he believes, if he submits now, he will be ravished, and that’s a thoroughly pleasurable idea. But Bard’s body is still new to him, and he finds himself reaching back, holding on, touching everything he can. He runs his palms flat along Bard’s body, and he tangles his fingers in Bard’s hair, dislodging little gems by accident and loosing the ribbon as Bard lowers down to him, pressing in for another kiss. It’s just as strong as the first, and Thranduil uses it to roll them over. He forces Bard’s legs apart around him, joyous at how easily they bend to his will, wrapping tight around his body. He grinds Bard into the mattress, their cocks slipping alongside each other, and it puts a fire in Thranduil’s veins that he hasn’t felt for decades. He has to force himself to let go, because he needs to reach with one hand for the nightstand, where the proper oils befitting a newlywed couple will surely be stored. 

In between kisses and drawing out the little vial he finds, Thranduil half asks, half _growls_ , “May I take you?”

Bard, panting already and still trying to kiss him, sloppily replies between pecks and teases, “I gave myself to your terms, didn’t I?”

“We will share terms,” Thranduil insists, though he does groan happily, “For tonight... I will be glad to have the first taste.” He’s already uncapping the bottle and spilling oil into his hand. If Bard doesn’t know what it’s for, he keeps himself quiet. It’s strange to think that such a handsome man, clearly so very virile, has lived to his age without exploring the pleasures of another man’s body. Thranduil supposes he should feel honoured, but it’s mostly overshadowed with hunger. He runs his oiled hand down Bard’s chest, stroking only once through the coarse down at Bard’s crotch, bypassing his hard cock all together, dipping between his thighs. There will come a time, very soon, when Thranduil will explore every last part of Bard’s body, kissing and licking and mapping, but that will have to come once he’s satiated his current need. The way Bard writhes beneath him and kisses him so fiercely only adds to that want. He won’t last, he knows. For all of his experience and power, he’s still vulnerable to the wiles of an erotic promise. Bard’s hips lift off the bed as Thranduil’s long fingers slip between the taut cheeks of Bard’s ass, taking liberties to stroke and feel along the way. 

When Thranduil finds the tight ring of muscles he’s looking for, he rubs one slick fingertip along it and diverts his kisses down Bard’s jaw and throat, because he wants Bard’s mouth to be free. Bard makes the most delicious noises, gasping and moaning already. His fingers tighten in Thranduil’s hair and skin as he hisses, “What do I do?”

“Relax, and open for me,” Thranduil says simply, evading Bard’s attempt to recapture his lips. Denied enough, Bard latches onto his neck instead, dragging hard teeth along Thranduil’s skin, tongue laving over him. One of Bard’s arms strokes down Thranduil’s lower back, not quite dipping enough to feel his ass. The other hand keeps petting through his hair, but it pauses when Thranduil first pushes one fingertip inside Bard’s puckered hole. 

Bard’s insides flex around him. The channel doesn’t quite relax, not yet—Thranduil can feel the tension in all of Bard’s hot, sweating body, but that body takes him in all the same. Thranduil only goes in a little bit at a time, the oil easing his way, and he pets the velvety insides around him. Bard starts to rearrange Thranduil’s hair, first tossing it along his back, then pulling it to drape of his shoulders. Thranduil can tell he’s already found one of his new husband’s fascinations, but he indulges, letting Bard play with the long strands however he wishes. In the meantime, Thranduil pulls his finger slowly out, only to push in again.

Bard grunts and hisses, but when Thranduil whispers, “Should I stop?” he shakes his head. The hand around his hips finally slips to his own ass. Bard’s rougher fingers dip between his crack, then squeeze at one cheek. Gritting his teeth, Thranduil uses the kneading of his own flesh to spur him on. He works his finger in and out of Bard’s pliant body until he can add a second. Bard’s thighs shudder around him, cock twitching and rutting all the harder into him. If they were both much younger and newer, Thranduil imagines they wouldn’t have even made it this long. 

Bard is tight, _very_ tight, even with all of Thranduil’s attentions, and it’s difficult, at first, to work the two fingers inside him. But soon enough, they’re scissoring open, and Bard growls next to Thranduil’s ear, “You better take me now, Thranduil.”

“Or you’ll spend yourself from my touches alone?” Thranduil muses. He wants to proceed as well, but he can’t help the chance to tease. 

Bard shifts to look at him, their eyes close but locking. Then Bard practically snarls, “Or I’ll roll you over and fuck you so hard into this bed that you won’t be able to sit in your throne for days.”

It’s not what Thranduil expected, but he can’t deny the thrill that runs up his spine. It’s an interesting prospect, submitting to a human—his _husband_ , he reminds himself—and the lust in Bard’s tone makes him want to try. He murmurs, “Another day, perhaps.” He presses a chaste kiss to Bard’s lips, but Bard turns it into something far wilder. 

Thranduil, having stretched Bard as much as he can with two fingers and not willing to wait for a third, slips out. The oil drips along with him, and he continues their kiss while searching without seeing for the bottle. Just to be safe, he adds an extra helping to his own cock, slicking it around the long shaft. Bard’s fingers join him to help, and Thranduil has to pull away, because it would be a shame if, for all his teasing, he were to give in before they coupled. The bottle doesn’t even make it back to the nightstand; it lands somewhere in the sheets, forgotten. 

Thranduil pulls away again, even though Bard’s mouth tries to follow. He wants to see what he’s doing, so he sits back, while his hands slip under Bard’s knees and hold them up. 

He takes a few second to examine Bard’s twitching hole, shimmering under the faint starlight with oil, his heavy balls nestled between his thighs and his magnificent cock rising off his stomach. It’s a glorious, almost dizzying view, and Thranduil takes that moment in, just to memorize his prize. 

Then he presses the head of his cock against Bard’s waiting entrance. He draws his hips in once, popping the tip inside, and his own hiss is swallowed up in Bard’s cry. He arches off the bed, head digging back into the pillows with his dark hair played around him. Thranduil searches his face for any pain, sees none, and pushes forward again, just before drawing mostly out.

With his hips picking up the rhythm, pushing in just that little bit at a time, Thranduil comes forward again, held above Bard on hands in knees, while his cock’s engulfed in a delicious, cloying heat. The muscles seem to squeeze at him, with enough leeway to push forward but enough tightness to drive home his pleasure. By the time he’s fully seated inside, Bard’s body is trembling around him, and Bard’s arms are lifting to encircle his neck and shoulders. 

He lets himself be pulled down, their chests falling together. The hair across Bard’s body is a strange scratch to an elf. The growing sheen of sweat along Bard’s skin glues them together, and he can feel Bard’s cock pressing into him, still engorged with want. He gives himself a moment to adjust, to luxuriate in the feeling that is being _inside_ his husband, and he brushes his thumb along Bard’s cheek, their foreheads pressing together. 

Then Thranduil pulls halfway out and rocks back in, drawing a grunt from Bard’s beautiful mouth. Another thrust, and then another, and Thranduil works into a steady rhythm of pushing inside, the air filling with their slapping sounds and their breathy noises. Bard returns to clutching at Thranduil’s ass and hair, while Thranduil litters his jaw in little nips and licks and kisses, tasting everything he can. It takes him several wondrous thrusts before he can even think to snake his hand between them, grasping at Bard’s cock. 

Thranduil gets one pump before Bard is lunging up, suddenly knocking them over. Thranduil goes rolling onto his back, his head hitting the pillows, and Bard lands skillfully atop him. Kneeling over Thranduil’s lap, Bard keeps Thranduil’s cock inside him and reaches for his own shaft. His fingers lock around Thranduil’s, holding them on, and before Thranduil can protest, Bard’s lifting up, only to drop all of his weight back down. The rush of it is exquisite, and Thranduil lets his hand be drawn up and down Bard’s cock, the oil from the preparation thin but enough. Bard starts doing all the work, sitting and slamming down, impaling himself on Thranduil’s cock again and again. The moonlight washes over him, giving Thranduil a beautiful view of every one of Bard’s muscles contracting and releasing with the movement. The air is thick with the stench of sex, something that Thranduil’s senses have gone far too long without. Bard stares down at Thranduil just as intensely. His mouth hangs open, panting with each thrust of his hips. 

He rides Thranduil’s cock with a feral skill. Every moment of it is perfection, and Thranduil knows he can’t last, even though he would have this moment forever if he could. It only takes a little longer for Bard’s cock to spill in their hands, splattering Thranduil’s chest with hot, sticky seed. Even as Bard’s hand goes limp, Thranduil’s keeps milking out the shaft, drawing jet after jet to spray him. Bard’s ass clenches with his orgasm, his face screwing up and his throat wrenching a gorgeous cry. It draws Thranduil’s own end closer, but he still lasts a few more thrusts before he’s bursting inside Bard. His hands reach to hold Bard’s hips down, and his own buck up to fill Bard with load after load, the pleasure of it washing through him to leave a heavy cloud of ecstasy.

In the wake of the euphoria, Thranduil lies back, sinking into the bed in heady delight. Bard stays over him, wrecked, shivering in pleasure. 

He tentatively lifts his body off, letting Thranduil’s cock slip out, and then he settles down to lie half beside, half on Thranduil’s body. Thranduil, groaning with having to move, rolls to face him. 

He will make an excellent husband. Thranduil knows that now, unequivocally. The desire is strong in both of them, and, he thinks, they have much to talk of. His fingers trace lazy circles across Bard’s chest as they both come down from the exertion. 

Then Bard leans across the space to kiss his forehead, warm and full of care. Love seems likely to follow. Bard won’t be a hard man to love, and the look in his eyes tells the same of Thranduil. 

Finally, Bard murmurs, “Still can’t believe you said yes.” Thranduil’s lips twist into a grin, and he feels the distinct urge to laugh. 

Instead, he reaches to pull the blankets back around them, and he purrs, “Rest, my beloved. Tomorrow, we may begin to plan our lives.”

Bard smiles. He’s never looked so handsome, although the moment he breathed Thranduil’s name in their vows might have been close. Thranduil allows his eyes to fall shut, content to know that in the morning, they’ll awaken to the sight of his new treasure.


End file.
